


Information received

by girl_called_sun



Category: Casino Royale (2006)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_called_sun/pseuds/girl_called_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Mathis once noted, being dead doesn't mean one can't be helpful. Villiers may be stuck behind a desk, but he has Bond's back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Information received

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tosca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca/gifts).



The phone buzzed, once, from its space on the enormous desk. Villiers picked it up and cradled the hand piece between jaw and his shoulder, contorting slightly as the continued to tap at the more distant of his two keyboards.

“Yes?” he answered. It wasn’t rude, it wasn’t short, it was just the way he answered the phone these days. Anyone who was calling knew exactly who should be on the other end, and he simply didn’t have the time these days - not even for ‘good morning.’”

“007’s here,” came the voice at the end.

“Send him straight up,” Villiers said, completing three acquisition orders and refreshing M’s email account with half a dozen precise keystrokes. “I’ll let M know.”

“Thanks,” the voice said, and hung up. Villiers pressed another button on the phone.

“Yes?” M asked, almost instantly.

“007’s on his way up,” Villiers stated.

“Good, Villiers, thank you,” M said, and the line clicked dead.

Villiers replaced the handset, and began to methodically close and minimise all the windows over both of his computer screens. Bond had an habit - a useful habit born of intense training, Villiers supposed - of reading any text in his vicinity, be it pixelated, printed, hand written or, knowing Bond, smearing across the wall in blood and block capitals. Villiers started on the paper files. Some of the particularly delicate information was still kept on paper, because computers could be, and embarrassingly often proved to be, horribly insecure. Villiers was half way through re-filing the current cases when Bond breezed through the door.

Villiers wondered if it was something hardwired and primeval that made him stop when Bond came into the room, some reflex of self protection left over from the days of predator and prey, of hiding in the trees from the sabre tooth tigers. Villiers didn’t know, because even firsts in Modern History and Politics are light on the evolutionary biology. Some weird combination of adrenaline and hormones was spiking his heart rate and kicking his gut, that much was self evident, even as he arranged the last of the “Top Secret” files, their black diagonal stripes bold on their buff folders.

“Villiers,” said Bond. He hitched a hip over Villiers’ desk and crossed his heavy forearms over his crisp blue linen shirt. “Is she in?” Bond smiled his easy smile, tanned skin creasing round his eyes; the bruise over his left cheekbone was almost faded, Villiers noted.

“I’ll just check,” he said, because it was important to follow rules in front of Bond, if only just to remind him of normal human behaviour. As he stretched for the phone, he noticed Bond’s eyes tracking an uncovered file, drawn by training and habit, as he had known they would be. “That’s confidential, Bond,” he said. He pressed the buttons for M’s private line before leaning back across the desk to flip the file closed. The cover boldly stated ‘Som/MSF/228A’ in across its stripe.

“Then it shouldn’t be lying about,” said Bond blithely. He gazed into the middle distance for a few moments as Villiers spoke to M. “Can I go in now?” he asked.

“One minute,” said Villiers. “She’s on the other line.”

Bond’s eyebrow’s raised and his lips thinned as he suppressed a smirk. “She’s not,” he stated. “Or otherwise the very useful and informative lights on your phone are sadly malfunctioning.” Bond nodded at the unlit panel of Villiers’ phone.

“On her mobile,” Villiers sighed.

“Ah,” Bond said. He paused a second, as Villiers tidied his rescued file and placed it neatly on top of a pile. “You could tell me about the East African situation, then,” Bond suggested.

“What, the highly classified and sensitive East African situation?” Villiers asked mildly. “I seem to remember signing the Official Secrets Act.” He picked the phone, glanced up at Bond, “M usually has tea at this time of morning. Darjeeling agreeable for you?”

“Very agreeable. I promise not to drink out of the saucer and lower the tone.”

“So long as you don’t put the milk in first, I shan’t have you escorted out of the building,” Villiers quipped. He ordered the tea, replaced the handset, folded his long fingers and rested his hand on the desk. “I’d think you can go in now,” he added.

“Thank you,” Bond nodded, before hitching his face out of the smirk and smoothing it to careful blandness before crossing the office to M’s door. Villiers watched him knock, and enter, noting, as he did every time, the curious heavy swing of the door. The hinges compensated for the weight, of course, but it was lined and reinforced so as to protect the office’s occupants from attack, explosion and eavesdropping.

Well, most eavesdropping. Villiers flicked a few switches on the phone, and tapped the loudspeaker icon.

“…can’t argue with the results, Bond,” M was saying, her delivery clipped and precise as ever.

“Just my methods,” Bond replied.

“No, I’m becoming more Machiavellian in my views. Or, at least, when your methods aren’t photographed.”

“Ouch,” Bond could be heard to murmur.

“But that’s not why you’re here,” M continued. “You know you did a good job in Paris, you don’t need me to tell you so. What do you know about the current East African situation?”

“As regards the on going piracy, or the aid situation?” Bond asked mildly.” Villiers could imagine his half crooked smile, and the way M’s mouth would open slightly in surprise.

“The aid situation, Bond, which I know damn well you are suggesting in that innocent fashion because it is meant to be classified. How you manage to consistently be the best informed of my agents is a mystery to us all.”

“Hardly, ma’am,” Bond said.

“Hmm. Well, what do you know?”

Villiers pressed the loudspeaker button again, switching it off, as the tea arrived. “Meeting,” he explained to the orderly, uncoiling his lanky height from behind the desk and carefully taking the tray. “I better take it myself.” He balanced the tray in one hand and tucked a folder under his arm before knocking M’s door. “Come in!” M called, and Villiers pressed the handle with an elbow before pushing the door with his shoulder.

“Thank you, Villiers,” said M, as he placed the tea on her desk. “And can we have the file on…” he set a buff and black striped file in front of her. “Yes.” She looked up, smile in her eyes if not on her mouth. “You are the most efficient aide, Villiers. Thank you.”

“Ma’am.” Villiers turned to leave. Bond was pouring the tea.

“Oh, Villiers,” Bond said. Villiers turned, half out the door, raised his eyebrows in query. Bond didn’t care if you were polite. “Thank you,” echoed Bond, adding milk to his tea, eyes flashing for a second.

But apparently he appreciated efficiency, too.

Villiers allowed himself a smile as he re-opened his files and finished booking the flights to Mogadishu.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed trying to write something that fitted the prompt and the characters, and I hope I've achieved it. I was thinking about how clever Villiers must be, and the old films' Bond/Moneypenny dynamic. Anyway, I hope it works for you.  
> Happy Yuletide!


End file.
